I have nothing against new stuff. I like new clothes, fresh paint, shiny toys, and babies. But I notice that what catches my eye is often what is old, what shows signs of use or wear or damage, even.

Some people might call what I like “patina.” Or, you know, “nuts.” But I find it reassuring to know that other people have been before me. They’ve worn spots in the floor over years of family dinners. Their tools exhibit the idiosyncrasies of their work. Their kids have banged up the stairwell walls with toy airplanes, or, like my brother, driven a Matchbox car over a refinished table, leaving tire tracks.

Or it is just a shift in perspective, breaking up the pieces of the world in a different way.